


Demontia

by EllenofX



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dementia, Gen, Memory Loss, Multi, Other, Post Gravity Falls, alzheimer's, tremors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:31:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenofX/pseuds/EllenofX
Summary: When he wakes up, there is a man sitting in an armchair next to him. Memories, Stan had learned, were like water. There were times is didn't matter if he remembered. This time, the conversation doesn’t take long; he’s heard this all before.“How is he?” Mabel’s voice is soft, like flour. It isn’t dour or sad, just lacking the perpetual excitement she used to have.





	1. Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how long I’ll be writing this. Just had the idea and kinda decided to role with it. Might only be one chapter, might be 60… Trying to make each chapter a complete little segment, so that when I abandon this it isn’t left “unfinished”, you know? If you like it and want more, commenting would be cool, particularly if you have ideas for how I could extend this out more.
> 
> Also, um... This is my first contribution to the fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he wakes up, there is a man sitting in an armchair next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter down. I’m almost certain there will be one or two more, maybe a lot more. All of them are going to end up _kinda_ telling a story, but I’m not sure if it’ll be full beginning, middle, and end, so you probably should read this as a bunch of drabbles.

When he wakes up in the bed, there is a man sitting in an armchair next to him.

The man is old and rough looking, with a square jaw and calloused hands. Right now, one of those hands is massaging his temples like he has a headache, mouth a curved down in a grim expression. At first his eyes are closed, and when they open, he straightens in his seat instantly, smiling in a way that looks sincere and forced at the same time. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, yet at the same time there’s still something warm and affectionate emanating from behind his irises.

“Hey,” He says, “You’re awake.”

From the bed, the other man blinks. He’s not sure what so say to that, so he sits up, casting a quick glance around the room. Where ever they are, it is orderly, though not necessarily clean. Livable, certainly, but the atmosphere smells too heavily of antiseptic and something unpleasant that he can’t quite put his finger on to seem ‘clean’. It’s a comfortable enough space, despite the smell, despite how distinctly foreign it feels, so the man in the bed allows himself to lean against the headboard of the bed and relax his back muscles.

Sunlight filters through a single small window on the opposite side of the room, softly illuminating dust particles floating through the air. A breeze shifts the curtain slightly, brushing it against the knitted quilt laid out over a small sofa. The man in the bed breathes deeply at this, hoping to catch some scent of outside from the breeze instead of the stale indoor air, thinking about how the sofa looks like a _nice_ place to sit, but not quite _comfortable_. There’s something floral on the breeze, and the man in the bed lets the scent turn the corner of his mouth up just a little before he turns back to the man in the chair.

Rough, old, these words still apply, but now there’s something nagging the man in bed about the man in the chair. He’s so familiar, yet somehow he just can’t place him. A moment into his staring, the man in the chair’s eyebrows go up and he leans forward, hands clasping together as he rests his elbows on his knees.

“So, uhh…” He starts, voice measured, hesitant, “You remember me?”

The man in bed doesn’t reply immediately, creasing his brow ridge in concentration. He’s torn, still not sure what to say, but begins feeling like he’s letting too much time pass by, so he says something that seems almost appropriate.

“I… believe so?”

Chair-man’s expression falls, but he tried to catch it, looking down at the floor or his hands for a split second. Then everything’s like it was a few seconds ago and he’s looking at the man in the bed with the same warm-but-forced smile. “You think so, huh?”

“Yeah.” The man in the bed says, trying to rectify the situation, “I mean, it’s not quite clear how, but I know that I know you.”

“Ah. Great.” The chair-man responds, looking down at the floor again. His voice is melancholy, but not quite disappointed. Not quite hurt.

“Do you know where you are?”

The man in the bed shakes his head slowly, becoming increasingly aware of how much he can’t quite place. There’s a tightness started in his chest, growing tighter, but he tries not to think about that too much. The room he’s in is nice enough, and the man sitting beside him is… is what? Safe? For some reason he feels like he is. For some reason, this feels uncommon.

“Hmm,” The sound is gruff and soft at the same time, almost reassuring, “Okay, do you remember your name then, Poindexter?”

It clicks.

“Stanley.”

Chair-man’s winces, and when he speaks again it sounds like he’s really struggling to keep his voice under control. “No, that’s not you’re name. I’m-”

“Stan, I know. My name is Stanford Pines and you’re my brother, Stanley Pines. I remember, okay?”

Stan looks up from the floor, face a gentle startled before he forces a smile again. Something in Ford’s gut twists uncomfortably, and he looks around the small room again. When he turns back, it looks like Stan’s about to say something, but Ford doesn’t give him a chance.

“Stan, is this…” He decides not to ask that way, even though he thinks he has a pretty good guess. Instead, he says, “Where are we?”

There is silence, then a long sigh. Stan let’s that forced smile vanish, and honestly Ford’s grateful; it was making him uncomfortable. Stan bends over the side of the chair, and there’s a rustle of something on the side opposite of Ford.

“Honestly, Sixer, I’d rather not be having this conversation again, but I know there’s no avoiding it.” He sits up, pulling a plastic bag into his lap. Riffling through it, he pulls out a half-empty bag of toffee peanuts and leaves them in his lap while he continues to search for something. Finding it, the big bag goes back to its hiding spot behind him.

“Brought you some jelly beans. Might as well have some now if we’re just goin’ to sit around here.”

Instead of handing the package over, Stan takes the time to open it himself, causing a curl of irritation to join the general unease in Ford’s stomach. Why didn’t he just hand the damn things over and tell him what the hell was going on? Before he can express that, though, the little bag’s popped open and offered to him. Despite himself, he’s not about to reject jelly beans just due to a little impatience, but when he takes the package Ford suddenly realizes that he can’t keep his hands from shaking and it _terrifies_ him.

“You got it?” Stan asks, and his tone implies that he’s asked this a dozen times before.

“Yeah,” Ford manages to say, somehow. He’s a smart man, or at least he was… “Yeah, I got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t quite decided how long after Gravity Falls this is yet, so sorry if it’s a bit vague. I think it’s been at leave a couple years, though, possibly many. Timeline might jump around a little.


	2. Recollection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation doesn’t take long; he’s heard this all before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm freaking out and I'm writing fan fiction to cope. Please comment if you can. Thanks.
> 
> P.S. Next chapter is fucking brutal.

The conversation doesn’t take long; he’s heard this all before. Every word Stan says seems to start a cascade of memories. It’s like adding water to hot grease, a single drop causing an explosion, dozens more drops spraying up then falling back to the surface. He’s a smart man, was a smart man, what he doesn’t quite remember he can fill in.

Stanley looks relieved when Ford stops him, smiles in a way that isn’t forced at all and stabs Ford in the gut with it.

“Great, Sixer, you’re doing great.”  
( _I’m doing great? Gods, Staley…_ )  
“How about we go outside or something? Feed the ducks.”  
( _Feed the ducks? Really?_ )

Ford almost wants to ask Stan who the hell he is and what he’s done with his brother. He wants to, but he doesn’t, knows that’s a bad idea. This is his brother, he knows that, and there’s a particular foggy memory keeping his tongue on check.

Stan helps him up without being asked, just like he opened the jelly beans without being asked. Ford hates that he needs the help, but allows his weight to lean into Stanley all the same. He’s dressed a little like Stanley always does when it’s late in the mystery shack, undershirt, loose boxers, and he feels an instant curl of disgust at himself. His skin seems thinner than it should be, delicate, the hideous tattoos adorning it faded out and blurred. Just how old is he now? Stan helps him pull a heavy robe over then, pulls it up over his shoulders, and pats them reassuringly.

“Ready, Ford?”

“I think I can manage feeding the ducks, Stanley.” Ford snaps back.

The look that flashes across Stan’s face is terrible, but all he says in response is a quickly murmured, “Alright.”

The rest of the retirement facility is just as orderly-not-quite-clean, nearly-comfortable. That being said, it’s… nice, for what it is. Briefly, Ford wonders how much money Stan sinks into this place a month. He wonders it again when they get outside and he can just barely hear the distant sound of waves, smells that slightly salty, slightly fish rot scent of the ocean. Stan notices the look on his face and comments on it indirectly.

“If you’re feeling good today, we can take a cab down to the beach for a while. Depending on if one of the nurses is available, I guess.”

Ford says nothing for a long time, letting Stan lead him across the parking lot to a small park-like space of fresh-clipped grass around a small pond surrounded by benches. When they sit down at one of said benches his hands, his old, shaky hands are balling into fists and he feels like he’s on fire. This isn’t right, isn’t fair. He’s been to other worlds, other _dimensions_ , he shouldn’t be stuck here, dying of old age.

“Hey, Poindexter, you okay?”

“No, Stanley,” Ford retorts, “I am _not_ ‘okay’! Does it look like I’m ‘okay’? For fuck sake I’m in a goddamned…”

The look on Stan’s face stops him, takes the winds of rage right out of Ford’s sails. His mouth gaps for a moment, looking for words, but in the end he finds none. He closes his eyes, breathes in, sighs, and looks back to his Brother.

“Stan, I’m so-”

“Don’t be. I get it.” Stan cuts him off before he can complete his apology, “It’s something, uh… Somethin’ you and me have in common, I guess. I mean, I never thought I’d live to be this long.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for Ford to say something, then forces a laugh. “Now, who said that? Always thought I’d go out like I came into this world, kickin’ and screamin’ and covered in blood?”

Now it seems like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Ford doesn’t either, just lets the quiet wash over them. Eventually, Stan leans forward, opens a little sack of what Ford presumes is duck feed. He tosses a bit on the ground and instantly the old men are surrounded by fat, white, feathered bodies of farm ducks competing against the smaller, mottled ones of their wild brethren. Ford’s just watching them when Stan looks over and watches a slow, strange smile creep over his brother’s face.

“The Snadger,” Ford says in a grave tone.

“Huh?”

The older twin gives a coughing laugh, looks up to the sky and loudly proclaims, “What hath science wrought?!”

He’s cackling now, appraising the sky with an angry mirth Stan can’t quite recognize as his brother. A moment of terror seizes him, and for a moment he wonders-

“Jesus, Sixer,” Stan swear, standing from the bench with rigid posture, “You in there?”

“What? Stan?” Ford looks a bit perplexed for a moment, “Oh, yes. I was just – the ducks reminded me of the day I came back, all those government agents all over the place.”

Stan stares at him dead-eyed for a moment. Eventually, his expression softens and he sits back down next to his brother. He needs to, he can’t be sure when the next time he’ll see him again is. Sure, he’s a bit emotional today, but… At least he remembers. That’s better than most days.

“Yeah,” He says, “Yeah. You grabbed some of the kid’s drawings on your way up. Something about meteors? And – heh – you asked those chumps for their floppy discs… Dear lord.”

Stan pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “Hey, you remember when…”

For once, Ford does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Bad Planning TM.


	3. Regression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How is he?” Mabel’s voice is soft, like flour. It isn’t dour or sad, just lacking the perpetual excitement she used to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are here and I feel dead inside.

“How is he?” Mabel’s voice is soft, like flour. It isn’t dour or sad, just lacking the perpetual excitement she used to have.

“Good, sweetie,” Stan says, “Not great, though. He doesn’t remember me, but he’s cooperative today. Reading his own journals for the most part. Finds them ‘fascinating’.”

“Do you still-?”

“Yeah, I gotta. Dipper helped me pick out which pages to give him. Don’t want him to think he’s in some sorta made-up world again.”

“Yeah,” Mabel says, eyes drifting down to the bundle in her arms. “Do you think it’s a good idea for us to visit him, then?”

“Oh. Yeah, sweetheart.” Stan places a hand on her shoulder to reassure her, “Mabel, even when he doesn’t remember, he loves seeing you. Lights up his whole day-”  
 _(or at least what he remembers of it)_  
“-and like I say, this is a-” Stan’s voice nearly cracks, “a _(comparatively)_ good day for him.”

Stan’s normally so good at this, putting on a brave face, pretending things were alright. It was something about being with Mabel, though, maybe having to do with his own memory loss. The girl, she really got to him sometimes, and thank god. Without that, without her, he’d be gone years ago. Part of him wonders if that happened, if he never came back after Bill, what Ford would’ve done. Where’d his brother be then?

There’s something bitterly ironic about the whole situation. _He’s_ the one who got hit with the memory gun and Ford’s the one who got dementia. It didn’t make any goddamn sense. Here they were, yet Stan’s memory is as good as it ever was; maybe better since he’s actually paying attention these days, he’s got reasons to. A family. A brother to take care of, kids he doesn’t want to disappoint anymore.

They head to the back together, and when they open Ford’s room they find the old man flipping through a binder of scanned journal pages. He looks up and smiles a little blankly, focusing on Stan, then Mabel.

“Hey Grunkle Ford,” She says, “How are you today?”

“Good,” He says, obviously perplexed. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Mabel replies, judging him for a minute before continuing, “Look who I brought, huh?”

“Oh,” Ford says, noticing the baby for the first time, “Oh, hi there…”

His voice is reverent, and he leans forward to get a better look. He reaches out delicately, hands quaking, and after a glance towards Stan who nods reassuringly, Mabel begins to relinquish the child. She keeps a hand on the babe, makes sure Ford can’t drop her. Only when the kid’s held to the old man’s chest, gentle, but secure, does she fully let go.

The way he looks at the baby makes Mabel feels guilty. His attention is completely wrapped with the child, smiling, and she’s hovering. She’s not going to stop hovering, either, because who knows when the stranger holding her daughter is going to change again. He’s always been fine while the baby’s there, usually he doesn’t become disruptive regardless… But she remembers why he’s here, in a retirement home instead of his own.

“What’s her name?” Ford asks, completely oblivious to himself.

“Leah Ford Pines, after her favorite great grunkles,” Mabel offers. She doesn’t tell Ford about the baby’s father, how she didn’t know she was pregnant when he died. She never does. There are two kinds of days, after all; the days when she doesn’t have to because he remembers, and the days when she decides not to because it will just confuse him.

“Great grunkles?” He echoes. It’s not really a question, just a mildly confused repetition. It doesn’t seem to bother him that he doesn’t know what it means, he’s too busy gazing down at Leah.

“Y-yeah,” Mabel says, “After you and Stan – Stanley.”

Suddenly there’s a little recognition in Ford’s eyes, and he looks up at Mabel, then Stan, then Mabel again.

“Me? She’s… mine?” He blinks, smile curving over his features as he adjusts his hold on the infant. “My family?”

Mabel doesn’t force herself to speak immediately. This happens every time she visits him. Sometime it’s immediate, other times she hold it together until she’s out of the building, sometimes even until she’s halfway home. Stan knows, rests a warm hand on her shoulder again, rubbing his old, worn thumb over her shoulder. She smiles, laugh-sobs under her breath and wipes her eyes. She can do this. For herself, for Stan, for the stranger holding her child.

“Yes,” She says, walking around Ford’s bed to sit in the arm chair beside it, “She’s family, we both are. You’re my great-uncle.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised, happy, looking up at her with almost as much wonder as he did a few moments ago when he first saw Leah, “And what’s your name, honey?”

“Mabel,” She says, “Mabel Pines. I, uh, I’ve got some pictures of you and me and my brother and Stan during the summers when we were growing up. Would you like to look at them?”

“No,” he replies. It’s not obstinate, just honest, and he goes on to say, “I want to hold the baby.”

“We can do both!” Mabel chips in, quickly, going through her diaper bag quickly to find the now well-worn magenta scrapbook. She brings it with her every time she visits. It used to be out of habit and that sometime, every once and a while, it would help Ford remember. Now it’s more of an excuse to lean over the bed, get closer to the old man and her baby without making Ford feel like she doesn’t trust her.

There’s a few things Ford recognizes today, and each time he says something like that Stan and Mabel’s heart soar. They haven’t lost him entirely, not yet. He remembers Dipper a little, can explain what they were doing in a picture from the summer after Bill was defeated. Mabel and Stan listen patiently, content enough, even if they’ve heard this story many times before and Ford can’t remember Dipper’s name. When he finishes, Ford looks at Mabel before hesitantly asking a question.

“The boy’s your brother?”

“Yes, Grunkle Ford. His name is Dipper.”

“And you are?”

“Mabel.”

“Right, right, of course.” Ford says, “My granddaughter.”

No one corrects him, its close enough, and they keep flipping through the scrapbook. When they’re near the end, Ford makes them stop at a picture of himself fishing, sun on his back, Dipper and Mabel swimming in the background. He looks at it, then to Stan. In the end, he doesn’t say anything because Leah starts fussing, but for a moment his expression seems deeply disturbed.

“Well,” Mabel says, after the babe’s back within her custody “I should probably leave. It’s getting late, and me and Leah have a long ride home tomorrow.”

“Alright, Mabel.” Stan says, getting up to hug her, careful not to disturb the child in her arms. “You be careful, yeah? And tell your nerd brother to take care of himself, will you?”

“I will, Grunkle Stan.” She says, bending over to give her other great uncle a hug before leaving. He returns it, but lightly, like he’s not quite sure why he’s getting hugged. When she lets go, she looks down at Leah again, gently taking one of her chubby little fists and making the baby wave.

“Say goodbye, Leah! Say bye-bye to Stan and Ford.”

“Bye baby,” Ford says, waving as Mabel and his great grand-niece left the room, “Bye!”

Stan realizes Ford has already forgotten the child’s name, thinks Mabel has too. He walks her to the door of the facility, and when they get to the door, there’s a pause.

“Hey,” He says, “Any chance I can hold my great grand-niece for a minute? Her mama looks like she needs a second, and frankly I could use one too.”

“Yeah,” Mabel says. There’s another laugh-sob, and Stan rocks Leah while her mom runs to the rest room to freshen up. _God, she’s so small…_ he thinks, then, _well, no shit Sherlock, she’s a baby._ and bends his head down to kiss the child quickly on the top of her head. She smells like soft-soap and baby powder. Regardless of her size, she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, and watching her with his brother brings a rush of bittersweet emotions.

He doesn’t give her back immediately when Mabel returns, he can’t. One of the kid’s hands is wrapped around his finger and god, the kid’s got a good grip, he swears he can’t get free _(he’s not going to try that hard)_.

“With a handshake like this,” He says, voice rough but fond, “She’d make a great con-woman one day.”

“Yeah,” Mabel says, “I’m sure.”

Leah lets go of him, cramming her fingers into her mouth to suck on them, and begrudgingly Stan ha8nds her back to her mother.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan?” She says, “You take care of yourself, alright?”

“Of course I will, Mabel,” He says, “You do to, and that little future star you got there.”

“Will do.” She says. Another brief side hug, short, just the right amount of awkward, and she’s out the door. Stan watched her go, then walks back to his brother’s room. Ford smiles when he sees him.

“Well,” he says, “That was a very nice young lady. Do you remember her name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, in the show the grunkles are in their 60s and Mabel and Dipper are 13 at the end of the summer. Since Ford and Stan are pretty spry overall and, based on my impression of the family, it wouldn’t surprise me if Shermie and his kid had their kids fairly young. Because of this, I somewhat arbitrarily decided to have Stan and Ford be just turned 63 in the show.
> 
> In this fic, obviously a fair amount of time has passed. I think Mabel probably followed about the “average” age for falling in love and having kids and all that, which right now in the US in 2014 was about 26… Maybe a little quicker, since Mabel is, after all, the shooting star.
> 
> Therefore, my official quote for how old everyone is the following:  
> Stan and Ford: 73-78, probably ~75-76  
> Dipper and Mabel: 23-28, Probably ~25-26  
> Leah: Definitely younger than 2 years. I’m not sure if I want her to be a newborn-newborn, or just starting to walk, honestly, so anywhere between a few months to a year is probably accurate.
> 
> This fairly well matches [one of the more popular fan timelines](http://alexia-neo.tumblr.com/post/139114059960/pines-family-detailed-timeline).

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this impulsively and without much thought… It might be really, really inaccurate, so I apologize if I offend anyone. If you care to correct me on something, I’ll add your correction to the chapter notes if nothing else. I might go through and edit the story, depending on my mood.
> 
> In case you’re interested, here are some of the sources I’m using… Frankly I’m listing them more for my own benefit, though. Future reference and all that.  
> [Alzheimers Web MD](http://www.webmd.com/alzheimers/default.htm)  
> [Health Line Dementia Types](http://www.healthline.com/health/dementia/stages#Types2)  
> [Golden Years](http://www.alz.org/living_with_alzheimers_15424.asp)


End file.
